


Sleeping with the Enemy

by umbrellaofshame



Series: Our complications make us who we are [1]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Dirty Talk, Dom Ross, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Consent, Fighting Kink, Hand Jobs, Kneeling, M/M, Mentions of dubious consent, Safewords, Sexual Tension, Smornby - Relationship - Freeform, Sub Smith, University AU, lots of swearing, once they've worked their shit out, overuse of the word fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:03:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrellaofshame/pseuds/umbrellaofshame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smith is a Sub, and not exactly pleased about it. But at least coming to uni has meant he can make a fresh start, without Dom tossers like Ross Hornby taking advantage. Because Ross Hornby is an irritating piece of shit, and Smith definitely doesn't fancy him. </p>
<p>Starring Alex "Scared, Angry, Horny And Confused" Smith, Chris "Accidental Matchmaker" Trott, and Ross "Actually Quite A Sweet Guy" Hornby. Porn with more plot that I originally intended (forgive the cheesy title). My first Hat Films fic, and my first attempt at smut. I'm going to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify - I use "going under" as a kind of subspace thing, kind of hypnotism. Hopefully it'll make sense in context.

Smith can’t say for certain why he was in such a bad mood that day. Maybe he’d been up too late working on an essay the night before (unlikely). Maybe he was nursing a god-awful hangover (more likely). Maybe he’d just had _enough_ of dicks walking straight into him because they weren’t watching where they were _fucking_ going, and it made him angry because he knew the stupid macho devil-may-care posturing would be even worse if anyone knew he was a Sub and thus supposedly _made_ for pushing around.

Whatever the reason, when some prick hits him squarely with his ridiculously heavy rucksack as he turns blithely to take his seat in the lecture theatre, Smith has had e-fucking-nough.

He reaches out, shoves the wanker back and mutters “cunt,” just loud enough for the guy to hear.

The wanker turns around. “Hey, what’s your problem, mate?” He’s tall, nearly as tall as Smith himself. Pale skin, gormless wide-open blue eyes, scrubby beard that he probably thinks looks cool but only looks like he hasn’t bothered to shave. What a tosser.

“Not your mate,” Smith spits back, teeth gritted, shoving him again. “Cunt.”

The guy visibly recoils at that – apparently not deaf after all then. A couple of his mates swivel their heads, and shit, Smith doesn’t actually want to start a full-on brawl. The guy’s voice rises in volume. “Listen, I don’t know who you are, or what the fuck your problem is, but I’m not asking for any trouble, so just piss off if I bother you that much. Twat.”

The guy turns his back on Smith and sits down, and Smith is so fucking tempted to grab his collar and smack him in his fucking smug superior face, but no, the guy’s mates are eyeing him up, and admittedly he only dragged himself out of bed for this dumb lecture anyway, so he doesn’t want to get kicked out of it before it’s even started.

***

In hindsight, the whole thing was a bit stupid, and almost certainly hangover-induced, and maybe Smith can even admit that he was a bit of a wanker about what was probably only an accident, but it doesn’t stop the one-off episode escalating into what could, with only a touch of melodrama, be called a “feud”.

It’s actually a couple of weeks before Smith sees the guy again, because their course is packed full, they probably have different lectures most of the time, and besides, it’s not as if he’s looking out for the prick. But he recognises him immediately when he does catch sight of him, and his blood suddenly boils. The guy is sitting in one of the crowded campus bars, laughing loudly with a couple of his dead-eyed mates, and Smith has to fight the urge to tell him to shut the fuck up. But this time he’s not actually exhausted or particularly irritable, so he tries to ignore him.

Of course, they accidentally meet in the jostling excuse for a queue while collecting drinks, just after Smith has half-forgotten about him and let his guard down. At first the wanker doesn’t recognise him, a stupid tispy-almost-drunk grin on his face as he mutters “two beers, one G&T… oh fuck…” and then has to holler across the room to confirm what “Nathan” wants again. Then of course he turns and sees Smith, and _of course_ he gives an annoying dopey grin.

“Hey mate. Feeling less of a prick this evening, yeah?”

“No, you looking any less of one, fucker?” Smith snaps back.

The guy’s face hardens. “Look, I don’t know why you’re being such a dick. You not been under in a while have you, getting crabby?”

Smith sees red. He knows the guy is only hurling out an offensive comment because he’s drunk, and, well, pissed off because Smith is being a dick, but he’s not going to take it. It was bad enough at school, when everyone knew he was a Sub, and he’s not having comments chucked around at uni when his cover is secure and staying that way, thank you very much. It doesn’t help that maybe there’s a tiny bit of truth in what the guy is saying.

Safe to say, Smith may throw the first punch, but the resulting fight gets them both thrown out, and after that their enmity is firmly secured, not least because the guy gets a drink all over his new Superdry hoodie and looks like Smith has just murdered his newborn child.

Anyway, it turns out the twat’s name is Ross, and after that he and Smith just can’t seem to avoid each other, despite Smith’s best efforts. They see each other in lectures, in bars, in clubs, in the library – Smith even spots him walking into uni one morning past his window, obnoxiously whistling and looking like Superdry are funding his tuition fees in return for him basing his entire wardrobe around them. And whenever their eyes meet, Ross rolls his eyes like seeing Smith is fucking torture, has a few words with his mates and then they leave the vicinity, one of them normally shoving into Smith as they pass if they’re in range.

If Smith’s honest with himself, it was the Sub comment that really rankled him, because the guy hadn’t shown himself to be anything more than an absent-minded idiot with a tendency to get on Smith’s nerves before that. And let’s face it, Smith knows plenty of those people. He knows he’s sensitive about his orientation – has been even before some twat at high school offered to put him under and then ended up posting photos of him online. Whatever progress has supposedly been made in recent years, being a Sub guy is still hard. Not that it looks like being a Sub girl is easy either, but Smith doesn’t have experience of that. What he does have experience of is people taking the piss out of him because the fact that he’s 6 foot 5 and could beat the shit out of you if he wanted but still ‘needs’ someone to take care of him, ‘needs’ someone to control him, ‘needs’ that release apparently is fucking hilarious. The fact that actually he doesn’t ‘need’ any of that at all appears to be a moot point with the bastards.

The fact is that he’s never really met a Dom who he liked or trusted enough to put him under, and the two or three times he ignored his instinct, the whole thing went tits up. And if living a quiet life means keeping his head down and lying about his orientation (by omission, generally, because he’s so loud and abrasive and cocky that no one ever expects anything but a Dom status from him), and occasionally punching the odd dickhead who makes a bad comment about Subs to work off his anger, so be it. All Doms seem to expect the world to fall at their feet, and Smith can’t stand them as a rule, so it’s no surprise that Ross is one, if the whispers from the girls who sit behind him in the lecture theatre can be trusted.

The one guy at uni who knows Smith is a Sub, is also, ironically, the one guy who seems to be trying against all the odds to get him and Ross to be pals, which is just too off-putting for words. Trott is a bouncy Switch who Smith has known forever, and he insists that when he and Ross did seminar work together he seemed like a really nice guy and he and Smith should just talk it out and isn’t he really too old to be holding grudges, but Smith steadfastedly ignores him. If he wants to hate some Dom tosser based on little evidence, then hey, that’s his prerogative.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Submission postures are body positions that a submissive animal uses to acknowledge a dominant animal and ward off aggression... Submission postures often involve exposing a vulnerable part of the body such as the neck."

            It’s summer term when things finally come to a head. Smith’s Easter had been shite. His family had been asking non-stop about his love life with the clear implication that they expected him to be settling down with some nice Dom sooner rather than later, he came back to halls on his own to escape them and ended up just getting pissed by himself most nights, neglecting his revision, and now exams are rapidly approaching and he’s not at all ready. It’s nearly 2am when he finally leaves the library one night, having tried and failed to get an absolute clusterfuck of an essay finished, and he’s not in the best of moods. And of course, as he pulls his hood closer about his head to protect himself from the cold and fumbles for his earphones, he shoulders into someone concealed around the corner of the library building.

 

            He stumbles back and begins apologising, until he recognises Ross. The guy must just have been leaning against the wall, outside, by himself, at 2 in the morning. What a fucking creep. The apology freezes on his lips.

 

            Ross, to his credit, doesn’t look best pleased to see him either. “Watch where you’re fucking going,” he mutters as he straightens his jacket. And because _somehow_ this guy has the supernatural power to push his buttons in a way that no one else does, and because Smith is tired and overworked and irritable and Ross hasn’t got his fucking mates to back him up this time, he lunges for him.

 

            Ross is pretty tall, and he’s actually stronger than he looks. They grapple fruitlessly for a few seconds, Ross swearing with surprise. Smith’s muscles burn with the need to _hurt_ this guy, his chest heaving and his teeth gritted. Ross’s hands are cold and he’s sluggish with the shock of the sudden tussle.

 

            But Smith must be off his game because a moment later Ross has him pinned to the wall of the library building, their faces inches apart.

 

            “ _What_ ,” Ross snarls. “ _Is your fucking problem?_ ”

 

            “Get the fuck off me,” Smith pants, fully prepared to knee Ross in the groin if he can reach (it may be a dick move but Smith’s not below that), but Ross anticipates it and crowds him closer against the wall so he can’t get his leg free. Adrenaline is racing through Smith’s veins, fuelling his agitation. He tries to shove back but Ross resists him. His body is surprisingly warm against Smith’s and his blue eyes are full of anger. Smith swallows convulsively, heart thumping.

 

            “No, seriously, mate,” Ross continues, and the prick barely seems winded, holding Smith in a vice-like grip, the textured brickwork digging painfully into the back of his head. “Do you just get a kick out of being a tosser? Because seems you aren’t like this to everyone else and I don’t know why you’ve picked _me_ to have a personal problem with.”

 

            Smith struggles again, because he’ll be damned if he’s having this kind of stupid fucking conversation, but Ross doesn’t let up. And then the sudden swooping awareness hits him that he’s trapped here, at Ross’s mercy, and his treacherous body gives a pulse of arousal. Oh god. Oh god no. Not here.

 

            “It’s not me who’s the tosser,” Smith hisses back, trying to conceal his abrupt and devastating realisation. “You and your fucking mates, treating me like I’m dirt, making your little… comments…”

 

            He only wants to get away now, it’s become his sole aim in life. He tries to force Ross back but the guy must be made of stone or something, because he doesn’t budge. However, Ross’s face has changed. The anger has faded slightly, though by no means completely, and he looks… a little guilty?

 

            “Look, I’m sorry about my mates. They can be a bit over the top sometimes. But let’s face it, you are the fucking _king_ of over the top. You called me a cunt the first time you saw me, and you’ve been nothing but a prick ever since.”

 

            Smith knows it’s true, which just makes the whole thing more irritating. Yeah he’s a prick, Ross’s mates are pricks, Ross is the fucking salt of the earth. Trott will be fucking over the moon. And right now all Smith is painfully aware of is the fact that Ross is a Dom, and he’s behaving in a way that would have had most Subs on their knees by now, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult for him to think straight.

 

            “Just fuck off, OK?” he mumbles, trying to keep his head down because he knows that if he doesn’t he’s going to fucking _present_ to Ross, going to bare his neck, and then Ross will _know_ and he can’t imagine anything worse.

 

            “Seriously though, what is your problem?” Ross insists, and the anger has crept back into his voice. And Smith is really fucking doomed, because that tone sends a fresh wash of heat through his body, and he needs to _get away fast_ before he does something very stupid. “You can’t treat me like shit the whole year and then just pretend you haven’t got a problem, because you obviously have. So just say whatever you’ve got to say, yeah?”

 

            Smith can’t, he can’t answer, because if he reveals that it was Ross’s Sub comment that really riled him, Ross will join the dots with his odd behaviour and he’ll figure it out, but the longer he stays silent the longer Ross has him pinned to this wall, and the longer he stays here the more obvious the whole thing becomes. He tries one last time to free himself of Ross’s grasp. This time the struggle is even fiercer, and for a second he thinks he’s made it, but then Ross slams him back against the wall again, that cold fire burning in his eyes, and Smith knows he’s lost. And a second after he computes that, he realises that he’s avoiding Ross’s eyes by leaning his head back further into the wall, which means that his neck is bared, oh crap, shit…

 

            He jerks his head back down again, but he instantly knows that Ross knows. Emotions are flashing through the other man’s face – surprise, anger, surprise again, and then… lust?

 

            “Oh fuck,” Ross gasps. “Shit a dick. You’re… you’re…?”

 

            “Fuck… you…” Smith manages, struggling again, but Ross, gobsmacked as he is, has no trouble restraining him. Smith is going to headbutt him in a minute if he doesn’t close his gaping, surprised mouth. But fuck if he isn’t turned on right now, he’s almost shaking with it.

 

            And then Ross does the unthinkable – he leans closer. For an insane second Smith thinks he’s going to kiss him and freezes with indecision, but in fact he brings his lips close to Smith’s ear to whisper. His breath is warm and slightly damp on Smith’s skin. “ _I could have you, you know._ ”

 

            “No… you fucking couldn’t… get off me…” But Smith knows his words are betrayed by his body, which is rushing with heat again, and surprisingly ready to stay pliant against Ross’s. God, he wants this. Wants to be taken. Please, no, no, he doesn’t, not here, he can’t.

 

            Ross draws back, and he still looks shocked, but something of the animal lust has faded from his eyes. He shakes his head as if to clear it, and then, abruptly, he releases Smith. Smith has to fight the urge to sink to his knees, but he manages to peel himself off the wall instead. It feels like his body weighs ten tons. It doesn’t want to move, it wants to stay here, penned in by Ross.

 

            “Leave me alone,” Smith manages to choke out, and then somehow he manages to force his trembling legs to break into a run.

 

***

 

            He knows Ross isn’t following him, but he still runs all the way back to his halls, not stopping until the door is locked behind him and he can sink to the floor against it, legs shaking, heart hammering, still full of adrenaline and unwanted arousal. He’s still hard. He still can’t stop thinking of Ross crowding him against the wall. Hot damp breath on his skin. The fantasy of Ross forcing him to kneel. Of…

 

            He pulls his own hair painfully to yank himself back into the present. Oh god, he’s fucked. Ross knows. Ross is going to tell everyone how Smith is a Sub, and nearly went to his knees for him outside the fucking library, of all places. Smith hates him so passionately, and yet now the thought of him makes his body ache. He can almost still feel the warm heavy presence of Ross’s body against his, the urge rising to give in and show his neck, the way Ross would kiss his way along his collarbones…

 

            He takes a shuddering gulp of air and goes to shower.

 

            When he emerges, wobbling even more now the tiredness has set in again and the adrenaline has left him, he has two missed calls and a text from Trott.

 

            **ross told me what happened. u ok?**

            Another wave of frustration and exhaustion sweeps over Smith. He replies _fuck off_ , switches his phone off, and spends another two hours staring sleeplessly at his ceiling before his spinning brain finally follows suit and gives in to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback guys, thought I'd edit the next chapter for tonight!


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning he has three more missed calls, a text saying **fine then twat, you asked for it** from Trott, and one from an unknown number. Still bleary with sleep, Smith clicks on it.

 

**hey Alex, it’s ross here. Trott gave me your no. don’t be pissed with him. wanted to say I’m really sorry for last night. I won’t tell anyone. what I did was out of line. guess you were right about me being a prick**

            Smith runs a hand over his face, breathes slowly out of his nose, and wonders why these things happen to him. Oh great. Now Trott is going to expect him to be civil to this waste of space because otherwise _he’ll_ look like the dick. Well, fuck that. Against his better judgement, he hits reply.

 

_it’s Smith, not Alex. yeah you are a prick. and whatever you think happened last night you’re wrong_

            He regrets the message mere seconds after he’s pressed send, but it’s only a moment before his phone buzzes again. Jesus, is the guy sitting waiting there for his reply?

 

**all right if that’s how you want to play it. but for what it’s worth I am sorry. wouldn’t have done anything like that if I’d known**

            Fury rises in him again. Fuck this guy and his snide implications - like he needs to darkly hint at what was hideously obvious to the both of them.

 

_you don’t know anything, so leave me alone and go kiss someone else's arse_

            Smith throws his phone to the bottom of his bed, rolls over on to his stomach, pulls the duvet over his head, and groans. Why the fuck is he even talking to this guy? Even if it turns out Ross isn’t as much of a dick as he first looks, the whole thing is still going to be an absolute trainwreck. For one thing, Smith is apparently physically incapable of not acting like a dick himself. And now, what’s worse, Ross knows his dynamic, and the both of them know Smith would have gone on his knees in a heartbeat last night had Ross asked him to. He’s feeling incredibly horny and angry and confused and now he’s wondering whether his frustration with Ross has been misplaced attraction all along, and wouldn’t that be fucking typical? He doesn’t know if he never wants to see the guy again, or whether he wants to kneel in front of him and…

 

            His phone buzzes, conveniently disrupting his thoughts, because thinking about _that_ isn't going to make this any easier, and Smith leans forward to grab it.

 

**I get you’re angry. can we talk?**

            Smith exhales. This is such a fucking bad idea. Well, like things can get any worse.

 

_on phone or in person?_

**in person if you’re ok with that. could i come to yours?**

            Oh fuck. Smith freezes. He definitely doesn't want Ross here. Does he?

 

            He knows what he  _should_ say. "sorry, I'm busy." "sorry, you're a cunt." "sorry, but I’m having very strong and conflicted feelings about you right now and it's not a good idea in case I do something I later regret like killing you or trying to shag you.” He should definitely choose one of those.

 

_ok. give me half an hour_

 

            Smith’s essay is still only half done, he’s slightly afraid he’s going to start begging Ross to fuck him as soon as he lays eyes on him, he hasn’t had breakfast, he’s only had five hours sleep, and his room is a tip. It’s going to be a good morning. With a churning feeling in his stomach he texts Ross his address and room number.

 

***

 

            When the tentative knock comes half an hour later, Smith has had a cup of coffee, tried to make his hair look a little less like he’s just been dragged out of bed, thrown most of his junk into the bottom of his wardrobe in true student style, taken an unpleasant and ill-advised gulp of whisky from the bottle he found under his bed, and paced for ten minutes while Trott sends him texts like **proud of you mate** and **look he’s not a bad guy** and **wait you’re not banging are you???**

 

            Ross is standing outside looking sheepish. In a Superdry t-shirt, of course. At least he looks as tired and crumpled as Smith feels. Smith grunts and lets him in. He offers him a coffee, which Ross refuses, and then they go to Smith’s room, because Smith cannot stand the teasing he’ll get from his housemates if they see him hanging out with a Dom. Smith sits on a chair and points Ross towards the bed, in the hope that not sitting on the bed himself will distract him from any… bed-like thoughts.

 

            Ross squirms uncomfortably. He doesn’t look like your stereotypical arrogant Dom, up close. In fact, he doesn’t look particularly Dom at all, without the antagonism rolling off him that Smith has gotten used to. The beard is only stubble today, and it makes him look younger. He scrubs an anxious hand through his hair. “Look, Alex… Smith, I mean. I wanted to say sorry. Really, I didn’t have a clue… about, about you, before last night. I didn’t mean to grab you like that. And didn’t mean to… say what I said. I just lost control. S’not like me. I’m sorry. And fuck, I swear to God…” Blue eyes widen still further to emphasise his sincerity. “I swear, that I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.”

 

            Smith eyes him up critically. He does actually look, and sound, contrite. No, more than that: the guy is practically vomiting sincerity and regret over everything Smith owns. More importantly, he’s currently looking expectantly at Smith, and presumably this is where he apologises too, for basically being a complete dickhead for no reason.

 

            “Erm… well I guess I’m sorry as well. We kind of hit it off on the wrong foot, which was my fault. And then you made that remark about Subs in the bar, and…” The words stick in Smith’s throat. He’s used to defending Subs, used to people thinking he’s touchy about the issue because of his brother or his mum, because Smith has implied he’s been close to Subs in the past and that’s why he sticks up for them. But to say this to a guy who _knows_ , God it feels weird.

 

            Ross has started rubbing a hand over his face instead. “Shit, mate, I am so sorry about that. I didn’t think… I was drunk, and you were being a bastard, so I just… lashed out. It really isn’t like me.”

 

            Smith manages to twitch out a smile. It takes effort, and he's afraid it looks sarcastic. “Well, Trott did keep trying to tell me that you weren’t a tosser.”

 

            Ross smiles ruefully, and that looks genuine too. Maybe he's one of those sanctimonious tossers who physically can't lie. “Trott’s a good guy. Nosy little bugger though.”

 

            Smith nods in agreement, and there’s an almost companionable silence for a few moments, until Ross coughs uneasily.

 

            “Look, this is pretty awkward, but I need to know… Are you going to make a complaint about me? Because last night, what happened… I mean, it was basically assault. You were trying to get away, and I, well, I…” He flushes red, but Smith is already pissed.

 

            “Is this why you came round here then? You wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to make a complaint about you? After you _pinned me to a wall_ and said that you could _have me_? Go fuck yourself. You thought that you’d better come apologise in case I went running to the, to the…”

 

            Words fail him; his voice catches in his anger. But Ross is shaking his head, waving his hands as well; he looks stricken. Even as Smith gets more aggressive, he’s backing down instead of getting riled up. His hands even look like he’s prepared to shield himself from a blow.

 

            “No, look, mate, I swear, it wasn’t like that at all! I felt fucking awful last night, and I…”

 

            “ _You_ felt awful? How do you think I fucking felt?” Smith snarls, and Ross reaches out tentatively to calm him down. Smith smacks his hand away. Hard. “Fuck _off_! Just because you know I’m a… I’m a… doesn’t mean you can…”

 

            He backs away, breathing fast. Ross is watching him carefully from the bed, and Smith fucking hates it, hates him, hates his own body for reacting like this. He hates having to _talk_ about this shit. What he really wants to do is hit Ross, but he knows that would be way out of line, so he just paces and swears under his breath for a while to calm himself down. Then he tries not to think about whether trying _not_ to hit Ross is some kind of buried Sub impulse, because he has after all, hit, and tried to hit the guy several times before, but it’s just not on when you’ve invited him into your house for some kind of reconciliation. Once he feels marginally better, he meets Ross’s eyes again. To his credit, the guy looks pretty anxious and maybe Smith’s fucked up, but that reassures him slightly. He sits down again, heavily. He feels knackered. This was such a bad idea.

 

            “Just let me speak, OK?” he says, and Ross nods. “I… Look, no one at uni knows about me… that I’m a Sub. I… I freaked out because I was afraid you were going to go telling people. And I get that you’re not going to do that, but you can’t blame me for… well, for freaking out. I’m not going to complain, I… I went for you first, so it’s not your fault it escalated. There.”

 

            He exhales slowly in relief at having finally forced the words out. Ross, however, is looking worried again. Jesus, does this guy have a facial expression that’s not mildly infuriating? “No one knows about you at uni?”

 

            “No, ‘cept Trott…” Smith’s body seizes in panic. “Wait, if you’ve told anybody, I swear to God…!”

 

            “I haven’t, I haven’t! But I just thought… that means you can’t do any aspect stuff.” Ross’s pale face is flaming scarlet at this point.

 

            Smith shakes his head. The fact that the guy is clearly as embarrassed as he is spurs him to speak. “I mean, I… I tried before I came to uni, but, well, no offence, but Doms are dicks. And besides, apparently I’m not what people want in a Sub.” He gives a self-deprecating snort and kicks the leg of his chair, trying not to show how much that hurts. It’s true though. Doms want obedience, and that’s not something Smith can give without a great deal of shit-talking first. And the only guy who would tolerate Smith’s backchat had been more keen on ‘correcting’ that kind of behaviour rather than having fun. That hadn’t been a good evening.

 

            Ross is giving him a measured look. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Smith fights not to be distracted by it. “I get it. I don’t do much of it myself. It’s difficult. I’m a big guy, and I don’t want to accidentally hurt someone... and, well, it’s not worth the hassle really.” He pauses. Rubs his nose – he looks even more embarrassed than before. “Look, you’re probably going to hate me even more for this, but I may as well just say it… would you consider doing something with me?”

 

            Smith’s brain freezes. This wasn’t the direction he’d anticipated things going, particularly not after he’d shouted at Ross again. Not that he hadn’t _hoped_ , on some level. But shit. Ross is sitting there, looking as small and unassuming as a guy over six foot can look, fingers drumming nervously on his thighs, but Smith can _feel_ the restrained Dom energy beneath the surface.

 

            “Aspect stuff?” he replies, heart thumping.

 

            “Yeah,” Ross says, his face still glowing. He glances at his fingers, and then back to Smith. “I understand if you want to run a mile, but, well, if no one else knows about you, then it must be difficult… and I’d be interested.”

 

            “Interested?” Smith repeats, throat dry. God, he hopes he doesn’t look too excited, or too terrified. He’s not used to people being interested. Oh, not that he doesn’t know that he’s objectively attractive. He’s got assets and he plays them up - plays up the confidence and the outrageous flirting. But that personality tends to turn on the Subs and off the Doms, which is obviously... inconvenient.

 

            “Yeah, well, you’re…” Ross waves his hand vaguely in Smith’s direction. “I mean, I’ll be honest, you’ve always seemed like a complete bell-end, but maybe I, erm, judged you too quickly?”

 

            Smith huffs out a laugh. “I wouldn’t say that, mate. I’ve only been loudly calling you a wanker for the last six months.”

 

            A smile splits across Ross’s face. It makes him look good. Even makes the stupid fucking stubble-beard look, well, at least a bit better. “Well, in that case, I guess things could only get better, right?”

 

            “I’d be interested. In you. In this,” Smith bursts out before he can talk himself out of it. Something in Ross’s smile turns a tiny bit predatory, and fuck if that doesn’t turn him on. The tongue emerges to swipe across his lips again.

 

            “All right then. I’ll text you or something.”  


            “What about now?” Smith blurts, and then immediately regrets it. Way to seem desperate as fuck, Alex. It’s not his fault his body is throbbing with tension, wanting something, anything, _now_.

 

            Ross considers. “Maybe not. Not that I’m not tempted. But we’ve only just decided that we don't... entirely hate each other. We both need to think about whether this is what we want, because I don’t really want you getting into this just because you don’t have any other options, no offence and… if you were in the library last night for the same reason I was, neither of us have finished Brindley’s essay.”

 

            Smith laughs at that and ruffles his own hair to cover his embarrassment at having asked. “No, I haven’t, you’re right.”

 

            “But…” Ross leans a little closer, his teeth clearly visible in the smile. “Like I say, it’s not that I’m not tempted. You were gorgeous as fuck last night. I wanted to snog the living daylights out of you. And then maybe give you a dirty handjob right there, where anyone could see.”

 

            His tone is half-teasing, geared to generate a reaction, but Smith knows there’s something there that’s dead serious. He swallows hard, fights the needy sound bubbling at the back of his throat. He doesn’t miss the way Ross’s eyes flicker over his face to check he’s on board before continuing.

 

            “I bet I could take you under nice and slow. So slow you’d barely even feel it, until you were on your knees, begging for my…”

 

            “Fuck,” Smith gasps inadvertently. His voice sounds hoarse and wrecked. His dick is developing an almost violent interest in proceedings, and Ross smirks at the sight of him. Jesus, a Dom’s never been able to do this to him before. It’s always been more about the physical, less of the talking. And now, somehow, knowing that there’s not going to be anything physical, it just makes this more of a turn-on.

 

            “I mean, you’re almost begging for it now, and I’m not even trying yet. Yeah, I’d enjoy taking you apart. Hold you down maybe, you seem to like that. So you…” He leans into Smith suddenly, and breathes the last few words against Smith’s ear. “ _So you couldn’t get away, no matter how much you struggled_.”

 

            Smith’s whole body shudders, and then suddenly Ross is pulling back, and picking up his coat from beside him on the bed, and then standing to leave. “Anyway, I’d better be going. Essay to finish and all that. Hope I’ve given you enough to think about so you won’t miss me too much. You look like you need a bit of…” His eyes deliberately flick to Smith’s crotch, which Smith immediately covers defensively. “Alone time? See you around.”

 

            “Oh fuck off,” Smith says without heat (in fact, he sounds more breathless than angry), as Ross shoots him one last grin before closing the door. Well fuck. That was unexpected.

 

            He seriously considers having a furious wank then and there, but decides to control himself. His phone buzzes and he picks it up eagerly, but it’s just another message from Trott. God, it’s been less than fifteen minutes since Ross knocked on the door.

 

**is he there yet??**

**oh my god he is**

**dont be a dick**

**… tell me you’re not fucking**

**ARE YOU FUCKING?!!??**

            Smith smirks.

 

_yeah mate couldn’t help myself, just a quickie. not sure I’m going to get the stains out of the carpet, theres my deposit gone_

**you’re disgusting. did it go ok?**

            Smith pauses.

 

_yeah, it was good_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and comments, you've got no idea how much they make my day! Two more chapters after this to finish and edit, should be up in the next few days.


	4. Chapter 4

            Ross doesn’t text for a couple of days. Smith appreciates the space, sort of, and at least he gets the essay finished. But every now and again Ross’s face and words will creep into his mind unbidden, and he’ll have to force himself to concentrate on his work and not let his thoughts dwell elsewhere. But fuck, apparently Ross knows how to push his buttons in more ways than one, because he can’t stop replaying their conversation, (or well, the better bits of it) over and over again. The fact that his room still smells a bit of Ross forces him to relocate to the library to fight his distracting thoughts, except of course now even walking past that spot outside makes him feel hot under the collar.

 

            He does try to think properly with his brain, not just his dick, though. Ross is right; he doesn’t want to get involved just because he’s horny and desperate for someone, anyone. But four days later, he has yet to think of a compelling argument against the odd… encounter here and there. Ross doesn’t actually seem to be an arsehole. In fact he seems an OK guy. Trott trusts him. And if he was going to spill Smith’s dirty secret, hey, he could do it just as well without needing to give Smith free sex out of the deal.

 

            Of course, Trott is overjoyed that they’ve made it up, and has decided that they’re all going to be best friends, even though Smith has firmly told him _look we’re not getting married I just don’t hate his guts quite so much ok_ , but it still makes him smile. Trott is a good judge of character, after all.

 

            In fact, the next time he sees Ross is completely unplanned, as they file out of a lecture. Smith had come in late and not even noticed him, but his eyes quickly follow his back as they all stand up to leave. Unsurprisingly, one of Ross’s mates catches sight of him and nudges the other, who looks ready to come and have a go if Smith tries anything. But Ross, glancing up and meeting Smith’s eyes, leans over to speak to the two of them, and a moment later they leave without him, still shooting Smith suspicious glares.

 

            The two of them end up walking side by side out of the lecture theatre and outside, quiet amid the bustling and the complaining of the other students.

           

            “So, you been OK?” Ross asks casually. Their shoulders brush companionably, as if they've been mates for ages, comfortable in each other's space. Smith likes to imagine he can feel the heat of Ross’s body, even through his jacket.

 

            “Yeah, fine mate, finally got that bitch of an essay done, how about you?” Smith responds, trying to keep his tone light.

 

            “Yeah same here.” Ross shoots him an inviting, cocky grin. Smith can’t help but smile back. To think a week ago he used to feel pure rage when he saw this guy. “You thought any more about us… hanging out?”

 

            And just like that, Smith’s mouth is dry and his blood is roaring in his ears. He glances down, adjusts the strap on his bag to give himself a couple of precious seconds to think. “Erm, yeah, I have, actually. Sounds good. D’you want to, erm, come to mine?”

 

            “Nah, I reckon more neutral ground might be best,” Ross says lightly, as if they really are talking about just hanging out, and Smith’s face isn’t tomato-coloured. “One of my mates has gone home this weekend, and he’s left me the key to his room, you fancy going there?”

 

            Smith can’t help it, he snorts with laughter, and risks raising his eyes to Ross’s again. “God, you dirty fucker. All right.”

 

            Ross grins again. His teeth are slightly crooked, but the smile still manages to be hot as fuck. “I’ll text you.”

 

            He puts on a burst of speed to catch up with his friends, and is gone. Smith huffs out another chuckle, wonders yet again what the hell he’s getting into, and reaches for his earphones.

 

***

 

            Ross texts him an address (standard student housing area, only a ten minute walk from uni) and a time (after lunch, the next day). Smith is glad for the timing, partly because he doesn’t think he can wait any longer without going mad, and partly because at least then he won’t have the dilemma about whether it’s too forward to bring any overnight stuff. After all, they’re not dating, they’re just… what are they doing? Are they actually going to be fucking, or is it just going to be aspect stuff? Smith doesn’t know which would be better. Maybe both. Both would be good. And fuck, now he’s got to fantasising again.

 

***

 

            When he knocks on the door, Ross opens it immediately, which is a relief, because half-way there Smith started panicking that this was some kind of really cruel set-up, and either he’d turn up at an oblivious stranger’s house, or worse, Ross and his friends would be waiting to kick the shit out of him.

 

            But no, Ross is alone, and pleased to see him, if the cheerful, expectant smile is anything to go by. His sort-of beard is more prominent today, and by some miracle he’s wearing a Star Wars t-shirt instead of a Superdry one. Smith feels bad for yet again presuming the guy was a wanker, and tries not to check him out too obviously. “Here, come in, keep your voice down, I don’t want Sam to know I’m sneaking people in.” He ushers Smith in and down the corridor to a small, surprisingly tidy room, with a queen-sized bed. Smith tries and fails not to look at it.

 

            Ross closes and locks the door behind them. God, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. Feeling trapped like this. Smith takes a deep breath, and then releases it in a fairly good impression of a bored sigh.

 

            “Right,” Ross says quickly, turning and waving Smith to sit down. “Before we, erm, get started, I thought we should have some… ground rules.”

  
  
            Smith, taking the desk chair, snorts. His mouth is dry _again_ , fuck. He wonders if Ross is feeling as nervous and turned on as he is. Surely not. “What, you going to make a list?”

 

            “Can do,” Ross says unconcernedly, perching on the bedside table and apparently determined not to be put off. “I want to know what you are and aren’t comfortable with. I also want us to have safewords.”

 

            Smith raises his eyebrows and pulls an incredulous face. “Really? We’re not going to be doing any hardcore shit. Unless you’re into that.” He wants to take back the comment as soon as it’s left his mouth, because he’s used to saying stupid flirty shit around Trott that he doesn’t really mean, and obviously he kind of does mean it around Ross, and he doesn’t want to be misinterpreted.

 

            But Ross doesn’t seem fazed. “I know we’re not, but obviously neither of us are the best at communication, we don’t know each other that well, and as you don’t seem to mind it rough…” (Smith feels his face redden again, but forces himself to keep eye contact like a adult for once.) “I want us to be absolutely clear about what is and isn’t OK. If either of us say the word, everything stops. We unlock the door, and we can go our separate ways if need be. I’m leaving the key here.” He drops it conspicuously beside him on the bedside table. Smith watches him, confused.

 

            “So, you got a word? Mine’s _marble_.”

 

            Smith raises his eyebrows again, and wrinkles his face in disbelief, half-expecting Ross to be joking and to tackle him on to the bed any second and get down to it. But no, he seems to be serious, so he guesses he should think of something. Shit. But clearly his floundering is too obvious, because Ross pulls him up on it.

 

            “You’ve never had a safeword before?” His eyes are curious, a little concerned, but not judgemental.

 

            “Well no, like I say, I’ve never been with a kinky fucker like you apparently are,” Smith snaps defensively. Great, he regrets saying that as well, because if he’s honest he _has_ been with kinky fuckers, and not enjoyed it terribly much, and maybe that whole mess would have been easier if they had had a safeword, but he just wasn’t expecting it this afternoon. He rubs his face awkwardly. “Erm. Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I just don’t know what to pick.”

 

            “Take your time. Can be anything, doesn’t matter how stupid.”

 

            “I _know_ that,” Smith says irritably, picking at the seam of his jeans. He’s torn between wishing they could just get on with it and get this sodding awkwardness over, and being so nervous that he wants to draw out this weird preliminary procedure. “How about… erm, magic?” He winces self-consciously as he says it, because it sounds stupid as fuck, but it’s not exactly something he’s inclined to say during sex, and this Sam guy has so many Harry Potter posters around the room that it’s not as though he’s going to forget it.

 

            “OK, that’s fine,” Ross says approvingly, and Smith’s so fucked, because even that sends a shiver of heat through him. “Right, anything you want to bring up that you’re really not into? I don’t mean like, extreme stuff, we’re not going to be going wild our first time, but anything you know you’re not comfortable with?”

 

            “I’m not comfortable with any of it,” Smith confesses before his brain can stop him. Ross raises an eyebrow. “I don’t mean… that! I just… I haven’t done a lot of Subbing. It kind of feels uncomfortable, but in a good way. You get what I mean?”

 

            Ross nods carefully. The concern in his gaze is so determined that Smith feels a little like it’s burning into his skull. He doesn’t know if it’s reassuring or off-putting. “All right. Let me know though, if I do anything you don’t like. We’re not pushing boundaries today. I just want us to have fun.”

 

            Smith nods in return, and the pressure of Ross’s concern diminishes a little. “What about you? Do you have any…?”

 

            Ross reels them off as if he’s reading from a list. God, the guy has almost certainly made a list. “Don’t pull my hair. Don’t do anything you’re not into for my benefit. And no biting.”

 

            Smith swallows heavily and nods, trying not to think about biting, which he should know by now never works. Now he can only think about biting.

 

            “Right, two more things. Are you clean?”

 

            It’s so difficult to drag his thoughts away from biting that for a moment Smith thinks he means physically, then realises he means medically. Well, that answers his question as to whether there's going to be anything sexual going on.  He feels a little as if the temperature in the room has risen a few degrees, or maybe that’s just the heat of his face glowing scarlet again. “Well, I haven’t actually been tested, but I’ve, er, always used condoms.”

 

            “OK. Me too, but we’ll go careful today, just to see if this is something we do want to do regularly, and then maybe we could get tested.” God, Smith half-expects him to bust out a sodding clipboard any second. “Last thing. How do you feel about me putting you under?”

 

            Smith’s brain short-circuits with anxiety and lust. “Uh. Err. Sorry. I, f-fuck. I’d be OK with that. A bit. Not too deep though. I don’t want to be out of it. Just a little bit.” Jesus, even ‘a little bit’ sounds like more than he can handle right now. He hadn’t realised how desperate he was.

 

            Ross licks his lips and nods. “OK. Just a little bit. Let me know if you want to come up again at any point. So, are you OK to start?”

 

            “Yeah,” Smith mutters. He thinks his brain might be about to explode. He gets to his feet, fishing his phone out of his pocket as he does so. He switches it off, placing it on the desk beside him. Feeling Ross’s gaze following him, he explains, “Just in case Trott tries to text me, y’know, he can’t restrain himself.”

 

            When he flicks his eyes back up to Ross’s face, he’s grinning. And standing. “Always a risk.” He steps a little closer to Smith. Smith swallows. “I don’t know how you want to start, but how about picking up where we left off at the library? Did you like being against the wall?”

 

            “Y-yeah, I did.” Smith stumbles back a little, towards the door, since that’s the only piece of the room that’s poster-free, and he doesn’t want to damage anything. Ross follows him. Smith’s heart is pounding. His palms are sweaty. The room seems incredibly quiet all of a sudden. He can hear his own ragged breathing, and Ross’s quiet, measured tread on the carpet. Outside he can hear muffled yelling, probably a sports match out on one of the uni pitches. People with no idea of the little drama unfolding behind the locked door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... did I just subject you to a whole chapter of negotiation? Yes I did (sorry sorry sorry). But, final chapter should be out tonight or tomorrow, guys! Thank you so much to everyone who has read, left kudos, or commented, you're the best!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, last chapter *muffled screaming*. There is sex ahead, please beware. ~~ohgodIhopeit'snotterrible *hides face*~~

            “Well then,” Ross says quietly. He’s very close now. Smith feels the hair on his arms stand on end. “How’s this?”

 

            In an instant he’s crowded Smith up against the door, bodies pressed together, breath hot on Smith’s face, gaze strong and unblinking. His right forearm pushes hard against Smith’s chest. He smells of Dom and laundered clothes and aftershave. Smith has to fight back a whimper. He can’t get lost in his head now – Ross is _right there_ , and his pale eyes are tracking Smith’s every moment, every twitch. He can’t be ignored, can’t be escaped.

 

            Experimentally, he squirms a little. Ross smirks and pushes him more firmly. His body is warm and heavy against Smith’s. Well, that’s a challenge if ever he saw one. Smith bucks fiercely, trying to get free, and Ross grabs his upper arms, spins him around, pushing his stomach and face against the door instead. He lets up the pressure a little so Smith can turn his head to the side to avoid his nose being crushed into the door. Now Ross’s body is plastered against his back, and god, Smith doesn’t know which was hotter. He feels like every inch of them is pressed together. Ross scrambles for Smith’s hands, and then pins both his arms above his head. He’s completely at Ross’s mercy. He lets out a small, low, broken moan, despite himself.

 

            “This OK?” Ross whispers in his ear, and he nods vigorously, as best he can in this position. Oh god, this is going to be over far too quickly. He’s never felt so good with so many of his clothes still on, fuck. His skin feels like it’s tingling.

 

            “You’re lovely like this,” Ross says quietly. His voice is low and reverent. “God.” Holding Smith’s arms in place with his right hand (Jesus the guy is strong, he must be fit as fuck under all those clothes), his left skims down Smith’s side, making him twitch. “You’re losing control already, aren’t you?”

 

            Smith whimpers in response. He’s already forgetting how humiliating, how embarrassing this is, because it’s clear Ross is as into it as he is, and not bothering to hide it. Smith can feel the pressure of his dick pushing insistently against his arse, and the breaths at his cheek are hot and rapid. He struggles a little bit, again, and Ross leans impossibly closer into him, lips brushing the back of his neck.

 

            “Do you prefer it like this…?” Ross murmurs gently, stroking his hand down the length of Smith’s body again, muscles quivering involuntarily at the touch. “Or did you prefer facing me? Hmmm?”

 

            Smith summons the mental effort required to speak. It takes him a moment. “I-I, I don’t mind. Either is good.”

 

            He can feel Ross’s smile against his neck. “All right then. Let’s turn you around again then. I want to see your face.”

 

            Ross moves him almost effortlessly, like a rag doll, even as Smith stumbles and tries to find his feet. Moments later, Ross’s eyes are piercing his again, and Smith feels a wave of relief at the fact he doesn’t have to fight not to bare his neck this time. He leans his head back, a clear sign of submission, and listens to the blood pumping in his ears. It feels so good to just give into instinct, for once not trying to hide his secret.

 

            Ross inhales sharply at the movement, and noses into Smith’s neck. His slightly smaller stature puts him at almost the perfect height. He licks a little, nips a little. His lips are full and slightly chapped. Apparently he’s not averse to being the one _doing_ the biting, and holy shit, Smith is definitely into this – he feels like his toes are curling. He can hear his own breath hitching. His eyes fall closed despite himself. A few moments later, Ross seems satisfied, because he stops his movements and smirks into Smith’s neck instead. He must be able to feel Smith’s pulse racing.

 

            “Well then, you seem to be enjoying yourself, don’t you? Why don’t I take you down just a little? You’d like that, yeah?”

 

            Smith nods again, as best he can with Ross burrowed into his neck, almost shaking with anticipation. When Ross next speaks, his words are slow and drugging.

 

            “You’d like to let go of your control, just a little bit. That’s it. Come on, now. Relax for me. Let me have you. I’ll take care of you, I promise. Gently, gently.”

 

            Smith’s head is spinning. He’s sagging against the door now, and he feels as if his knees are going to give way. Fuck, Ross is good. How can someone this good be single? Jesus, he hasn’t even asked. He hopes to God he’s single. His eyes flicker open in concern, but then another gentle touch to his cheek brushes his anxieties away. Shit, a little more of this and Smith will be signing his soul away to the man.

 

            “There we go, that’s a bit better now, isn’t it. Just down a little bit, not too much. Just enough.” Ross leans in to kiss him, and Smith hungrily reciprocates, his inhibitions slightly muted. He can’t help closing his eyes again as their lips meet. His movements feel instinctual, his body molten. Ross’s mouth is warm and tastes of chocolate. Ross strokes his hair gently and Smith feels like he’s sinking deeper into a warm bath.

 

            “You’re doing so well,” Ross says softly, as he draws back out of the kiss. Smith blinks confusedly at him, trying to re-orient himself. “There we go. Now, how about you kneel for me?”

 

            Smith knows he isn’t too far under, because the words still sent a shiver of humiliation as well as arousal through him. Ross licks his lips, waits for his response. Fuck, but he wants to kneel. Before he can let himself overanalyse it, he lets his legs fold under him, and he naturally sinks to the floor. Ross strokes his hair again, his cheek. God, this is good. Fuck, he can _smell_ Ross’s arousal, _feel_ it like a physical presence in the room.

 

            “Well done,” Ross says, and he sounds pleased, like he means it. Smith sways a little towards the crotch of Ross’s trousers. Fuck, he wants. He wants so badly. But Ross nudges him aside a little with his hand, not unkindly.

 

            “It’s all right, we’re not doing that today. We’re starting slow. You looked like you liked the idea of kneeling the other day though, so I thought I’d let you have a go at it. You’re a natural. You look lovely.”

 

            Smith grins, feeling the pressure Ross has been gently putting on him ease up a bit as he bobs back up to the surface. He’s suddenly aware of the rough carpet under his knees, gravity pulling gently on his loosely hanging limbs. He feels warm and satisfied, and confident enough to tease. He gives his best come-hither smirk. “I bet I do.”

 

            Ross smiles in return. “How about you get up on the bed instead?”

 

            “You not going to lift me?” Smith sulks playfully, batting his eyelashes.

 

            “Not today,” Ross says regretfully, and Smith clambers up himself, palms warm and sweaty. He lies on his back, feeling exposed, staring mutely up at Ross. His hand twitch nervously at his sides. Fuck. God, how are they both still wearing so many clothes? Ross sits on the bed beside him, leaning over so their faces are close. He draws a thoughtful finger along Smith’s neck, as if savouring his surrender. “Now, I don’t want to push you too far today, but are you OK with me touching you?”

 

            Smith feels another pulse of arousal, but can’t resist being a little shit. “But Ross, you’re already touching me.”

 

            “Hmmmm.” Ross leans forward to tease at his neck with his mouth instead. “That’s true. But there’s other places I can touch you.”

 

            “Please,” Smith blurts, forgetting to play along. “Ross. Please.”

 

            When Ross raises his head again, his smile is brilliant. “You _are_ good. Why has no one snapped you up before?” When he leans in to kiss Smith, Smith is more aware of the beard than before, but he’s almost resigned to the fact that he now finds it hot rather than annoying.

 

            He jolts with surprise a moment later when he realises Ross has begun undoing his trousers, and Ross stops immediately. “Still OK?”

 

            “Yeah.” Smith gives a shaky exhale. “Yes, please, I am…”

 

            Maybe it’s just that he’s slipping under a little again with the intensity of it, or maybe Ross is just immune to the clumsy fumbling quality of Smith’s previous sexual encounters, but a moment or two later Ross is (fuck) holding Smith’s cock in his hand, in a very gentle, almost non-sexual way. Ross’s hand is large, and warm, and fuck, it’s probably better Smith tries to direct his thoughts _elsewhere_ , like how calm and intense Ross’s eyes are on him, except, _no_ , that’s not helping either. He takes a shuddering breath. His whole body feels wound so tightly, it’s as if he’s about to suddenly _ping_ from the tension.

 

            “It’s all right,” Ross says soothingly, and begins to stroke him. Smith is so wet already that the movement is smooth and effortless, Ross’s long fingers just-tight-enough around him. When his fingers move to tease the head, Smith gasps, legs kicking out reflexively. “It’s OK, I’ve got you.” Suddenly, Ross shifts position, moving himself so he’s looming _over_ Smith, on his knees and one hand to support himself, hemming Smith in. Oh fuck. The last thing Smith needed was for this to get _more_ erotic. He squirms again. His stomach muscles clench with every stroke, he pants for air. Even though he’s lying down, his legs are trembling.

 

            “Ross, please, oh God, don’t torture me, oh fuck…” His voice is pathetically breathy, but he can’t help it.

 

            Ross’s smile is beatific and yet just a little cruel. “Oh Smith, you want this to be over so soon?” His face is very close. Smith’s eyes flit distractedly over his face, feeling as if he’s struggling to take everything in. Slight sheen of sweat on forehead, eyebrows dark and a little dishevelled, blue eyes with dilated pupils, lips slightly parted, _fuck_ … Ross’s hand speeds up, and Smith’s hips buck desperately, but a moment later he’s slowed again.

 

            “Ross, please,” Smith groans. He’s straining to come already. Ross looks a little breathless himself now, but he shakes his head.

 

            “Not yet. Mind if I take you under a little again?”

 

            “No, yes, I mean, fuck, do it, I want…”

 

            Ross soothes him with more kisses to his collarbone, his neck, his lips. Smith moans shamelessly. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. Now, down we go.”

 

            Smith sinks downwards into the bed and lets his eyes close again. Shit, Ross is strong. One day, he’d like to fight him for control. God, that would be good. But not fighting is good too, sinking under without effort, without objection, just letting Ross’s voice wash over him like warm ocean waves. The pleasure too, is rushing over him, stronger and stronger with every of Ross’s pulls.

 

            He surfaces again a moment later, taking a giant ragged breath. Ross is there, smiling. “Good? You OK?”

 

            Smith nods wordlessly and groans again. Fuck, it’s almost too much. Jesus, Ross can’t be close, Smith hasn’t even laid a finger on him. For a moment, panic rises in him, and he scrabbles at the coarse fabric of Ross’s jeans, but Ross releases his cock to bat him away, making him moan in frustration.

 

            “No need for that. This is about you, for now. I’ll let you know when I want you. Just relax.” He keeps their faces level, keeps his eyes locked on Smith’s.

 

            It doesn’t take long after that. Ross keeps talking, his words spilling over Smith as the pleasure rises like an unstoppable tide. As he reaches the edge, panic seizes him again, and he grabs at Ross’s hand. Ross stops immediately, looking at him with concern.

 

            “No, please don’t stop,” Smith pants. “I just… Do you want me to ask? Before I, before I…?”

 

            God, it’s so unlike him, normally he’d have made some crude remark about buckets of jizz to hide his awkwardness, but here, in this moment, words fail him. Ross shushes him quietly, resumes his stroking. “No, you don’t need to ask. Whenever you like, Smith.”

 

            Even the use of his name does something to Smith – makes him feel warm, safe, grounded. Ross is here with _him_. Wants  _him_. A few moments later, he’s gasping at the brink. Ross holds the eye contact steady for a few heartbeats and then leans down to kiss him through it as his legs twitch and he spends himself in Ross’s hand with a low groan, chest heaving as he pants for breath.

 

            It takes a little while for him to come back to himself, lying hot and sweaty, out of breath and nearly fully clothed on a stranger’s soft bed. Ross must have had tissues on him, the wily bugger, because he’s wiped his hand without bothering to get up. Smith surges upwards to kiss him, struggling to prop himself up on his shaking arms, grasping at Ross’s shoulder instead for support. “You’re fucking amazing,” he whispers brokenly into Ross’s mouth. “Just, tell me what you want, please, I’ll do anything.”

 

            “It’s all right, you don’t have to do anything,” Ross soothes. “Just having you here is enough. You looked so good when you came. Eyes closed, mouth open. I could feel you trembling against me. Fucking beautiful.”

 

            “Please, please, I want to do something,” Smith begs, hands shaking a little as he reaches for Ross’s fly. He hasn’t let himself feel like this without embarrassment before – this desperate, this eager to please someone else. Ross nudges his hand back a little but doesn’t dismiss it as he pulls down his jeans and takes himself out of his underwear. Smith reaches for him as if he’s hypnotised, and Ross chuckles breathlessly.

 

            “It’s… ah… nothing special, no need to… fuck, you’re, ha, good, oh…” Smith grins a little as Ross’s eyes flicker closed for a split second before fixing hungrily back on Smith. The skin of his cock is soft and hot under Smith’s hand. God, he looks good. And smells good. And even tastes good, Smith ponders, licking experimentally at his fingers, which makes Ross groan and cover his eyes.

 

            “Do you want me to suck you off?” Smith asks sincerely. It’s not normally something he prefers doing, but god, his mouth is almost watering. But Ross shakes his head.

 

            “N-no, your hand is fine. Can I take you under one more time, Smith, can I?”

 

            “I don’t give such good handjobs when I’m all dopey,” Smith teases, but his blood is already heating at the thought. “Yes, you can.”

 

            Ross leans forward to kiss him again and doesn’t even use his voice this time, just lowers Smith gently down until the movement of his hand on Ross feels effortless, entirely natural and instinctive. Smith forces himself to keep his eyes open so he can see Ross’s pleased, flushed face, can hear himself whimpering a little with how good it all is, _fuck_ , and it’s not like he’s going to get hard again so fast, but even on a non-sexual level it’s overwhelmingly _good_.

 

            A few minutes later, and Ross pulls him up again just in time for him to see Ross shudder and reach his climax. Ross’s eyes almost roll back in his head with the force of it, and his lips and eyelashes quiver. He exhales heavily and then collapses on to his back on the bed, chest rising and falling rapidly. Smith, seized by inspiration, spots the used tissue now half-crushed under his own thigh, wipes his hand and then tosses it carelessly away, so he can nose in close to Ross as the other man’s breathing evens out and he can smell the sweat cooling on their skin. He admires the texture of Ross’s cheek, the angle of his cheekbone, the intimate closeness of the moment.

 

            “Good?” Smith asks cheekily once he considers Ross has had enough time to contemplate his technique. He knows it was good. But he wants to hear it all the same.

 

            “Very good,” Ross says, still sounding slightly breathless. “Fuck, you are exquisite. Jesus, when you’re going under…” He turns his head, but Smith, suddenly seized by some stupid insecurity, ducks his head so their eyes don’t have to meet.

 

            “You’re not bad yourself,” Smith says honestly, flushing a little at the praise.

 

            “Enjoyed yourself, then?” Ross’s voice is deep and amused now, but Smith doesn’t mind it.  


            “Yeah. I’ve never…” Smith takes a breath. “It’s never been that good before. You didn’t even take me deep, it was just… fuck.” He pauses to appreciate his own inadequate description. “You have such a dirty mouth though,” he adds as an after-thought.

 

            Ross breaks into a full-bodied laugh. Smith can feel his muscles shifting under his shirt and can’t help but smile himself. “Yeah, I guess I do. Sorry about that, I just tend to say what I'm thinking. At least I’m not doing it in some kind of booming narrator voice.”

 

            Smith raises his eyebrows, risking a glance up at Ross’s face. “You’ve got a booming narrator voice?”

 

            “AND SO,” Ross says dramatically. “SMITH HUMBLY OFFERED TO GIVE ROSS A BLOWJOB. BUT ROSS…”

 

            “Stop, stop, fuck!” Smith chokes, trying not to laugh and burrowing his face into the bed to escape. Little wheezy giggles escape despite himself. “Fuck, that is _awful_.”

 

            “All right, fine, I won’t break that out next time,” Ross says teasingly. His fingers begin to play with Smith’s hair again. Cautiously, Smith leans into his hand. It feels nice, soothing.

 

            “Next time?” he says hopefully. Quietly, though. Just in case.

 

            Ross rolls over on to his side, so their eyes can meet properly. “Well, obviously. I mean, for one thing that was probably the hottest sex I’ve ever had, and all we did was wank each other off, and for another, I’m determined to make Trott regret he ever persuaded us to get along.”

 

            Smith can feel his face light up. “I think we can do that.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, your feedback has been fab and seeing I've got a new comment honestly makes me flail with excitement! Hope the wait was worth it ;) The story is over for now until inspiration strikes me again, but I'd definitely consider doing some one-shots or something in this 'verse (ideas always appreciated!).  
> PS. You can come pester me at umbrellaofshame.tumblr.com. Currently working on a sequel but progress is slow and I don't want to start posting until it's done! Thank you so much for the continuing kudos, they make my day <3


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